


The Opposite of Vanilla

by waferkya



Series: The Cake is a Lie [3]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Unverse - Bakery, Bad Puns, Blow Jobs, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ricky puts his mouth to good use, and we meet Pau.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opposite of Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBalkanophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBalkanophile/gifts).



 

He wakes up to Ricky’s mouth around his cock and he’s already hard and shivering and he shudders, hitting the back of Ricky’s throat, and Ricky makes a sound that should be banned from existence and is not and Juan Carlos slaps his hands on his face.

“Jesus, Ricky—” he groans, and Ricky hums, distracted, his fingers tangled in the messy hairs curling around the base of Juan Carlos’ erection—he sucks ever so gently, his throat working against the wet tip, then shifts back a little to run his tongue over the head and Juan Carlos’ hips snap up and off the bed without his permission.

It doesn’t take long before he’s mumbling nonsense and pushing at Ricky’s hair to try and get him to back up a little—though Juan Carlos has no idea how long he’s been doing this, he was out like a light and didn’t dream a single thing, let alone the very probably addictive heat of Ricky’s wet mouth—but Ricky won’t, he just pins Juan Carlos down on the bed and keeps licking at him through his orgasm, until Juan Carlos’ fingers in his hair are tugging him up.

Ricky grins in the warm golden light that has filled the room and kisses Juan Carlos with his mouth open—he doesn’t taste like vanilla anymore, but Juan Carlos can’t bring himself to care.

“Good morning,” Ricky whispers. “Even though it’s basically dinner time.”

Juan Carlos looks at him for another minute, his hand lazily brushing up and down Ricky’s back, and the kid arches up into his touch, kinda like a cat. Juan Carlos turns to the alarm clock on his nightstand and sighs; it’s half past six. It’s still early.

“You hungry?” he asks, shifting away from the warmth of Ricky and dropping his feet on the floor. He should take a shower before going back to the bakery, but his stomach is cramping.

“Kinda,” Ricky says, scratching at his hip. Juan Carlos nods, pulls on the soft sweatpants he usually sleeps in and therefore he keeps under the bed, picks a random t-shirt from the pile of unsorted clean clothes next to the bedroom’s door, and walks out without glancing back.

He’s stuffing two trays of green lasagna into the microwave when Ricky shuffles into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a tight pair of black boxers; Juan Carlos rolls his eyes, but he’s silently grateful for the thermostat keeping the house warm enough for the kid to walk around with so much skin exposed.

“Frozen dinner?” Ricky asks, with half a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

Juan Carlos shrugs. “It’s quick.”

“You’re a _baker_.”

“Yep, not a chef.”

Ricky shakes his head, but walks up to press himself against Juan Carlos’ side and kiss him; Juan Carlos’ hand spontaneously raises to curl around his hip.

The microwave pings and Juan Carlos turns to it suddenly, taking out the lasagna, hissing when he almost burns his fingers touching the hot sauce, and replacing it with two other trays of—he’s not exactly sure what it’s supposed to be, he lost the package a thousand years ago, but it looks like some sort of stuffed pie.

Ricky’s finger is brushing the base of his spine, tracing just over the elastic of his sweatpants.

“So,” Ricky says, thoughtful, looking down. “I’m not exactly looking for a relationship,”—Juan Carlos almost scoffs—“but can we do this again? Maybe soon?”

“I thought you didn’t like frozen lasagna.”

Ricky doesn’t miss a beat. “I meant the sex.”

The microwave pings again, the little door hanging open a little. Juan Carlos is busy looking at Ricky’s face, which is a very pretty face, and also his tiny, smug smile, which is very pretty as well.

He nods, once, very briefly.

Ricky beams, kisses him again, then sets the table and they eat without much of a fuss, if you don’t count Ricky’s foot climbing up Juan Carlos’ leg and nudging at the slight bulge up there, nestling under it and rubbing up against it. (Juan Carlos counts that.)

When Ricky leaves, he doesn’t ask Juan Carlos’ phone number, and Juan Carlos doesn’t offer it, because he’s always at the cafeteria anyway.

 

It’s day thirty-eight when Ricky stops asking—both for Juan Carlos’ number, and sex. He still shows up for coffee and sweets, and he’s chatty and chirpy and flirty and annoying and everything, but there’s no real bite to his words, his eyes lit up with delight and amusement but not that starving throbbing need he got sometimes—not even a spark of, _I really wanna kiss you right now_.

He stops trying to mess with the whipped cream entirely, too.

Another two days, vanilla lattes, and cinnamon rolls later, Juan Carlos figures it out: there’s a hickey on Ricky’s neck. He didn’t put it there. Someone else has. Juan Carlos finds himself smiling a little. Ricky has found someone. He is moving on. (Moving on from _what_ , exactly?) Juan Carlos is happy for him, and nothing else.

 

It takes another week before Ricky’s charm is back at full strength; Juan Carlos _knows_ right away—he has stopped pretending that he doesn’t read this kid like an open book for a while, though it still feels weird, usually he’s not this good with people—and braces himself, and he’s even a little sad that the relationship flunk so quickly.

“Hey there, grumpypants,” Ricky says, grinning up and propping his hands on the counter. Victor called in sick so Juan Carlos is alone—Joe showed up to help with the morning rush but left maybe fifteen minutes ago—but most of the tables are occupied. (Not Ricky’s favourite, though; Juan Carlos has taken to place random things on it in the mornings, a box or a coat or a Christmas basket or a book, and so far it’s been enough to discourage people to sit there when Ricky’s not around.)

“Good morning. The usual?”

Ricky licks his lips. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m kinda tired of vanilla, I think.”

Juan Carlos arches his eyebrows and thinks, _well, looks like all that Mayan Apocalypse bullshit wasn’t actually bullshit after all_. “Are you okay?”

Ricky laughs, and then he’s walking away—towards the swinging door in the counter—and now he’s behind the counter and he’s smiling in a way that’s totally the opposite of reassuring and Juan Carlos, perched on top of his stool behind the register, frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you,” Ricky whispers to his ear. “I’m tired of vanilla.”

And then he’s dropping down under the tall counter, and he shifts and pushes Juan Carlos’ knees further apart so he can kneel between them and Juan Carlos goes wide-eyed.

“Ricky, what the fuck, _no_ ,” he whispers hurriedly, looking around the shop at the customers—everyone is either typing on their laptop or typing on their phone or typing on their tablet, but that doesn’t really make any of it okay—specifically, Ricky’s fingers unzipping Juan Carlos’ jeans are very much not okay. “ _Ricky_ —”

“Shh, it’s fine,” Ricky murmurs into his thigh. “Don’t worry, you’re always awful quiet anyway.”

Juan Carlos opens his mouth to protest a little more, but has to shove his hand up and bite his knuckles to keep himself from moaning suddenly and loudly, because Ricky has started mouthing at him over his boxers and, fuck.

He can feel him _smirk_ like the unrepentant little bastard he is and Juan Carlos breathes hard until he’s sure he won’t make a sound, and then his hands find their way to the top of Ricky’s head.

Ricky pushes his nose against the cotton, nuzzling to the side a little, but he can’t move much and he can’t get Juan Carlos’ jeans completely out of the way; his thumbs slip inside, however, and under the edge of Juan Carlos’ boxers, teasing the softer skin and rubbing straight against his growing cock.

Juan Carlos gives a tiny, surreptitious cough, and shifts back a little, glancing down and desperately trying not to look too much like someone who’s talking to their own crotch.

“What happened to your boyfriend?” he asks under his breath. Ricky stops with his tongue halfway out of his mouth—he’s enjoying all this licking boxers thing a little too much, maybe—and looks up, his eyes wide with some sort of confusion, like he’s wondering how the hell did Juan Carlos know about a boyfriend. So Juan Carlos says, “ _Please_.”

Ricky shrugs and looks away. That’s not a good sign. “He’s a dick.”

Juan Carlos’ hands now are threading through his hair gently, brushing it back a little, touching the sensitive tips of his ears. Ricky closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the edge of the stool.

“Okay,” Juan Carlos says, eventually. “Bathroom. Now.”

Ricky’s head shoots up suddenly, and then he’s scrambling out of there so quickly Juan Carlos almost doesn’t catch sight of his smile.

 

Christmas is around the corner and Juan Carlos is utterly fucked, and not in the good sense, because Ricky and his mystery boyfriend made peace a couple of weeks back, before he could pick up the nerve to ask the kid if perhaps some time he would’ve liked to maybe switch. He is fucked as in fucked up, and fucked up as in he is never going to survive the holidays.

He collapses on the stool behind the register, exhausted by six hours of back-breaking dough kneading and baking and decorating and thinking of amusing names for the new Christmas-y products, and starts taking orders and money and handing out change and of course, the thing he hates the most—smiling at customers and wishing them a politically correct happy holidays, trying not to sound like he just walked out of his grave, which he sort of, kind of has.

“Good morning,” he says to yet another soul eager to get fat on whatever it is his hands have made today. “What can I get you today?”

“Oh, hi. One tall chocolate mint cappuccino, please,” the guy says, and Juan Carlos makes an impressed face—that’s one weird order. “And, uh, one of the Star Wars cupcakes, thank you.”

“That’s a good choice,” he mutters, scribbling the order for Victor. “The total’s 6.75. Is there anyone in particular you’d like to eat on this fine, fine day?” he asks, jumping off the stool to go reach the cupcakes on the far right of the display window.

The guy at the register laughs. “I’ll take Obi-Wan, thank you.”

Juan Carlos picks the plumpest Obi-Wan Cakenobi—“Do you want it to go?” “No, I’ll be eating here”—and puts it on a plate over a nice dark-blue starry napkin.

“There you go, cannibal.”

Another laugh as the guy takes the plate and hands out ten euros. “Well, I’m not a Jedi.”

“That’s what you all say,” Juan Carlos tells him, and maybe it’s the weariness, but he finds himself smiling genuinely. “Your coffee is probably ready, Victor’s good like that.”

He starts picking up change, but the guy stops him waving a hand.

“Please, keep it,” he says, and flashes Juan Carlos another grin before slipping towards the end of the counter.

Juan Carlos giggles and faces the next customer.

 

Maybe an hour and two espressos with extra shots later, a tall guy with a lot of pretty, fluffy-looking curly hair shows up at the register; Juan Carlos looks up, tips his head to the side. He didn’t hear the wind chime.

“Hello. What can I get you?”

“Hey,” says Curls, and Juan Carlos recognizes the voice of the funny Jedivorous from before. “Can I have a Chewie this time?”

Juan Carlos grins. “Yeah, but that doesn’t make you any less of a cannibal I’m afraid.”

Curls laughs and shrugs, smiling prettily; Juan Carlos smiles back for no particular reason, and hands out the cupcake.

“How much is it?”

Juan Carlos hears himself saying, “It’s okay, you covered it before.”

Curls looks surprised, but his smile grows a little and Juan Carlos is most definitely not blushing.

“Well, thank you—I’m paying the next one though,” he says, with a pointed look; Juan Carlos raises his hands. “Hey, look, do you, uh, do you know when Marc is coming in?”

Juan Carlos looks at him, considering the question; after a moment, he tips his head to the side a little, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth against his better judgment. “You’re his brother, Pau.”

Pau makes a frankly terrible fake-terrified face. “What gave me away?”

Juan Carlos laughs. “I don’t know. It’s not like you look exactly like each other.”

Pau squints at him. “Was that an insult?”

Juan Carlos laughs again. “Okay, you stole most of the handsome genes.”

“Thank you.”

Juan Carlos offers his hand over the counter, and Pau takes it. “I’m Juan Carlos.”

“Yeah, I figured out that much. Marc can get, uh, enthusiastic over the phone,” Pau says, laughing. “I’m not saying I know everything there is to know about you, but I probably do.”

Juan Carlos giggles—then he doesn’t anymore, because he’s suddenly thinking of one drunken night he spent on Marc’s couch some six months ago and he doesn’t remember much about that, granted, but he knows he woke up sticky and flushed with Marc draped all over him, so.

He feels his cheeks redden and looks up at Pau, but Pau’s smile is kind and friendly and open, so maybe he doesn’t know.

“You’re lucky, he works eleven-to-four today,” Juan Carlos says, eventually. “He’s usually a half hour late.”

“Fantastic. So I’ll just, go back to my table there and chew the Chewie.”

Juan Carlos laughs. “That was a terrible joke.”

“Yeah, but you’re laughing,” Pau points out with a grin.

“I’m the one with the Baking Bad cupcakes, Pau. My sense of humor is, let’s say, one of a kind.”

“Make that two of a kind then,” Pau says, his grin growing softer.

Juan Carlos has never had such a hard time wiping a smile off his face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> BWAHAHAHAH.
> 
> (Ricky's dick of a boyfriend is Rudy of course.)


End file.
